


Concoctions

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:56:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The brief history of Tomwise, Darktown's eminent poison maker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concoctions

It was his mother that first taught him to identify Deathroot. He sat in her lap, thinking that his mother was the loveliest mother in the entire Alienage, listening with rapt attention while she pointed out how the small purple flowers were different from those on a similar, innocuous plant, its name long forgotten since it was of no use to her. She  _was_  lovely, but more importantly she was wise, and every day she would sit him at the table, her face warm and encouraging as she placed several different plants in front of him.

“One of these is a cutting of Spindleweed,” she would say, pushing the reddish brown leaves together into a pile, shifting them together before she lifted her hands away. “The rest are Sheep’s Laurel. Do you remember what Sheep’s Laurel can do?”   
  
“It makes you throw up,” he would say, pressing his hands over his mouth, gleeful at the naughtiness of it all.   
  
“Exactly. Can you tell me which one of these leaves is Spindleweed?” she would ask, and he would furrow his brow as he concentrated, shades of the man he would become in his small, childish face. He would take his time, already meticulous, and eventually, he would point one long finger at the leaf that was so minutely different from the others that it was a wonder anyone could tell the difference, much less a child of no more than seven years.   
  
“You’re such a good boy!” she would say, and if business had been good, she’d offer him a treat, or a toy, and he’d take them because she offered them, but he learned for her, to please her, not for any tangible reward.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
At eleven, he began to work for her, mixing bases in his own mortar and pestle, feeling so good, so important. People would come to the door and smile at him as his mother led them off. They’d leave with a bottle and a lighter purse, and his mother would sit next to him and count her coin. It was like a game, but it was better than play because sometimes she’d give him one of those coins that felt so heavy, and hard, and real, but always she’d kiss him on the side of the head and tell him what a very, very good boy he was.   
  
~~~~~~~  
  
At thirteen, he learned something new—a secret thing, one traded in whispers between boys in the Alienage, their eyes darting over and over to him when they spoke. Tomwise would sit, stripping the leaves off of long stems of elfroot, pretending not to feel the chill of their gaze on him. He’d stack the leaves in bundles of ten, then tie them off with twine. It didn’t matter if they wouldn’t play with him; his mother would be happy to see so much work done when she got home.   
  
“Hey, kid!”   
  
The boy who approached was twice Tomwise’s size, and before he could even think to defend himself—and why would he? Nobody had ever hit him before—he had thrown a punch that would leave him with a black eye for weeks.   
  
“Your mother killed my uncle!” the kid shouted. Tomwise couldn’t even respond. It was such a strange thing to say. His mother, his wonderful, loving, wise mother, killing someone?   
  
“In a way,” his mother had said, dabbing his eye with an elfroot soaked rag, “he was right. I sold the poison that killed his uncle, so in a way, it was my fault.”   
  
Tomwise sat silent while she explained, realizing then that she’d been grooming him to take over for her all along.   
  
“Was he a bad man?” he asked.   
  
“I suppose if someone wanted that badly to kill him that he must not have been a very nice man,” she replied.   
  
~~~~~~~  
  
He took over the family business at seventeen, after his mother fell ill. He led customers past her bed and into the back room where he showed them a wall of small jars, all labeled in a steady, even script, and opened a book of prices. He had learned long ago not to rationalize it. The world was harsh, and some people needed killing. Better that they died in their sleep after a sip of something sweet, rather than being gutted like fish. Oh, Tomwise could use a knife if he needed to—a good skill to have when your clientele are all criminals—but he never used it. There was something in his eye, and his self-assured stance, that cowed most with ill intentions. He sold them their toxins and took their money, never regretting a single sale.   
  
When his mother passed, there were whispers of guilt, and blame floating in the air like ash.   
  
“That Tomwise boy was always strange,” they said.   
  
“Not that his mother was any better,” they said.   
  
“But can you imagine? Her own son…” they said, and Tomwise heard enough.   
  
It was one thing to be wrong about something, but it was another thing entirely to be wrong so loudly, and once he realized that the rumors weren’t going away, he packed his things and abandoned the house. He thought first that he’d leave the city, but that meant walking through Lowtown with all of his possessions on his back, and even after having spent his entire life in the Alienage, he knew that no elf could get away with that when there were guards around.   
  
So he went down instead, into Darktown, finding an empty spot that was walled in on three sides, a small cat sleeping in the corner. If it was safe enough for a cat, it was safe enough for him, and he settled in there with the animal, looking into its wide, green eyes.   
  
“You’re Tomwise, aren’t you?”   
  
He looked up from one set of green eyes and into another, recognizing Athenril immediately. She was a good customer, and a tough woman. His mother had liked her.   
  
“I heard about your mother,” she said. “I wanted to give you my condolences. She was a wonderful woman.”   
  
“She was,” Tomwise agreed. “I’ve taken up the business, so you can buy all the same things from me…if you need them, that is.”   
  
“I think I just might,” she said, and that night she introduced him to the others, to Hawke and his brother, and the proud redhead. She called him her friend, and warned the others to respect him as they would her, an admonition that nearly made him laugh, because though he was more proud and pleased than he had been for a long time, he could never imagine being anything like Athenril.  
  
“Tomwise,” Hawke said. “A good name, that. Much better than Tomfool, anyway.”   
  
Hawke grinned, his brother groaned, and for the first time since he was a child, Tomwise laughed out loud.


End file.
